


tumbleweed

by Crollalanza



Series: The Guess Monster Collection [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Fox team dynamics, M/M, Miyas fight in every universe, busker au, side ship appears at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 08:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16783492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: The sound of 'Take A Chance on Me' sung (badly) three times in a row was enough to put anyone off their work. For Kita Shinsuke, who liked to prep his restaurant food with a certain order and silent harmony, it was anathema. But when he opens the back door to shoo the unruly busker away, he finds himself face to face with the goofiest smile he's ever seen.And he's thin, this busker, so thin so before he knows it, Kita finds himself offering the penniless busker free food and shelter from the storm.But is Tendou Satori all he seems?





	tumbleweed

**Author's Note:**

> I started this for Tendou Rarepair Week in October but it spiralled to this behemoth. This is what happens when you start a ship tag as a joke and then it becomes your raison d'etre. 
> 
> So, I know song fics are wildly unfashionable, but he's a busker so he has to sing something.

It was not a good sound. There was no harmony about it more the caterwaul of someone experimenting, and for Kita Shinsuke who preferred to work with only the natural sounds of his environment, it was not remotely melodious.

It wasn’t even that he hated the song, but it was the third time in a row he’d heard it, albeit with different intonations.

He continued to chop the water chestnuts, his precise slicing leaving paper-thin slivers on his chopping board, but it was slower than usual, his rhythm disrupted by the disturbance. For not only was the singer disconcertingly off key …

 _‘If you change your mind._  
_Take a chance, Take a ch_ —’  
  
He was attempting to sing both parts of the song, and play the guitar.

_‘I’ll be first in line  
Take a chance Take a chan—‘_

And at the end of each refrain, Kita heard a slight clash of cymbals.

 _‘Honey I’m still free_  
_Take a chance on meeee_  
_If you need me_  
_LET ME KNOW’_

 _Oh for heaven’s sake_. Kita strode to his larder, hoping for some respite from whomever was murdering the song, and took his time selecting three ducks from those hanging up to dry. He plucked at a stray feather, picked up a bunch of carrots and returned to his kitchen.

 _‘You know I got_  
_So much that I wanna do_  
_When I dream I’m alone with you_  
_It’s maaa-gic’_

Cymbal clash discordant and off the rhythm, Kita knifed the duck far more vehemently than necessary.

 _‘You want me to leave it there_  
_Afraid of a love affair_  
_But I think you knooooooow—’_

At that out of tune warble, Kita heard a bone splinter where the knife had jerked the wrong way. He snapped and wrenched open the kitchen door leading out to the alleyway.

“STOP IT!” he yelled.

 _‘That I love you_ —Huh!”

“I’m trying to concentrate on my work and—” Kita took a deep breath calming himself before he drew himself up to his full height to face the shadowy figure at the entrance to street. He walked closer. “This song is a little off putting. Could you possibly go elsewhere?”

“Uh… this is a good pitch,” the singer said, still strumming his guitar. “A lot of bustle and—”

And then he levered himself off the wall he was leaning against, and tilted his head sideways, studying Kita. “Is that a real chef’s hat, or are you cosplaying?”

“I am a chef. This is my uniform,” Kita replied, keeping his voice steady. He refused to react to the man’s mockery, instead looking down at the coins in the hat at his feet. “You don’t appear to have taken advantage of the good pitch.”

“Hey, I’m warming up!”

“With the same song?”

“You could be on to something. I _should_ be improving my range…” He took a breath and in the split second before he opened his mouth again, Kita knew beyond any doubt that if what he’d heard before was bad, this would be even worse.

_‘THE WINNER TAKES IT AAAAAALLLLLLL!’_

“PLEASE!”

“Ahhh, you can’t beat a bit of ABBA, brings the punters in.”

“Don’t you think you’d be better off near the park?” Kita asked, preparing a debate in his head, to point out the advantages of moving on and to rebuff any objections. “More people, and many of them are sitting down so it’s a captive audience.”

“More buskers,” came the reply. He rubbed the back of his neck, half dislodging the black beanie he was wearing. “People have finite resources, Kita-san.”

“You know my name?”

His lips twitched, and his hand flared to the awning above the restaurant door. “I know this place is new, and you’ve told me you’re the chef, so … I kinda assume you’ve named Kita’s after yourself.” Then he hitched the guitar over his shoulder, unhooked the cymbals from his knees (that’s how he worked them!) and raised his hand in salute. “I’m guessing you don’t want me putting off your fancy-pantsy clientele.”

And then he wandered off, a nonchalant stride as he wended his way through the throng of commuters. In the light, Kita could see him more clearly, lanky, and a little stooping, his shirt as clashing as his cymbals, mulberry and red drawing the eye. And as if that wasn’t enough, he was taller than those milling around him, having a head at least over Kita.

“You should have been honest with him, Shin-chan,” reproved a voice in his head.

It was as he turned that he saw a hat on the floor, a few yen had been left, but nothing substantial, yet despite that, Kita felt a sudden obligation. “Hey!” he called out. “Hey, Busker-san. You left your hat!”

But the busker kept on walking.

Scooping up the hat, Kita returned to his kitchen. He’d lost a little time, and his assistants would be in soon, so he busied himself with jointing the ducks, and finishing the vegetable prep and refused to think of the busker whose livelihood appeared to be in a scruffy purple baseball cap.

His maître d', Aran, arrived first, a little earlier than usual because he was also carrying the fresh linen which he’d picked up from the laundry and wanted to be sure the tables were properly set. Trusting him implicitly, Kita left him to the restaurant, while he continued in the kitchen. Aran wandered through on the way to the wine cellar a short while later, bringing out some red, and moving several bottles of white to the kitchen fridge. They worked in silence, the odd gesture, or nod of appreciation between them, and although Kita noticed Aran’s glance at the baseball cap, he didn’t remark on it.

“Specials?” Aran asked.

“Coquille St Jacques,” Kita began. “Pan roasted duck with raspberry jus, and …” He chewed his lip, trying to decide, but just then his assistants arrived.

“Kita-san!” they both shouted.

“Not late are we,” Miya Osamu said, glancing a touch warily at Aran.

“Nope, I’m early.”

“Told you we were fine and you were fussin’,” Miya Atsumu replied, jolting his brother with his elbow. “Hey, is that the specials board?”

“Yes, I’m trying to decide which dessert today.”

Both of them straightened up, Miya Atsumu trying to make up for the centimetre difference in height by standing on his tiptoes, and Kita knew that any of the desserts the brothers created were good enough for the specials board, so the only problem was which fitted the best with the menu on that day.

“Chocolate truffle tart, I think,” he said with a nod to Atsumu. “Osamu, can you ensure there’s a good quantity of fresh ice cream.”

“Sure.” He didn’t show any disappointment, and maybe there wasn’t any, but when the pair of them had started working for him, the competition had become fierce between them to be chosen. But With management, a smattering of praise for their creativity and work ethic, the twins rubbed along pretty well at work.

Atsumu carried a small smile with him while he melted chocolate over a bowl and rubbed the flour and butter together for his delicate pastry.

“Didn’t know you were a fan, Kita-san?”

“Hmm?” He turned around from his counter, seeing Osamu grinning at him, whilst wearing a hat sideways on his head.

The busker’s hat.

“It’s not mine,” he started to explain. “Fan? What do you mean?”

“It’s Miracle Boys merch,” Atsumu explained.

Kita blinked. “Um… what?”

“Even you must know the Miracle Boys,” Aran said, and chuckled. “No, I guess not. They’re a band, Shinsuke, quite a successful one. Their music’s everywhere, although as you never have the radio on, then…”

“They’re pretty popular,” Atsumu added. “Well, they were.”

“Hmm?”

“On a ‘break’, which is kinda code for splitting up,” Atsumu explained. “Lead singer did a solo project.” He shrugged. “It weren’t that great.”

“The hat’s old,” Osamu said, taking it off to examine it. “This is from their first tour. Was it left here?”

“Uh… yes.” Well it was, sort of. Just not _in_ the restaurant.

“Shame. We coulda made some money flogging it on ebay,” Atsumu joked, taking the hat from Osamu and twirling it around his finger.

“Put it in lost property,” Aran interceded before Osamu could grab it back. “Someone might be missing it, even if it is old.”

“A classic,” Osamu retorted. “You meant to say a classic, Aran-san.”

“If you say so.”

So, Busker-san was a fan of a boy band, and also liked ABBA songs. “If the person comes in, let me know will you,” he said mildly, then glanced up to find three pairs of eyes watching him. “They left something in the hat, that’s all.”

The lunchtime crowd kept them busy, the growing reputation of the restaurant causing an influx from out of the usual area. Despite their fondness for bickering, both Miyas were professional when it came to working, helping each other out when necessary with an almost telepathic understanding. Aran was ahead of the game, the supreme host out in the restaurant, and with a competent wait staff, Kita was able to check each dish personally before it left the kitchen without worrying about what was going on outside of it.

During the lull, when the lunch stragglers had left and the early diners had yet to arrive, the wait staff came in from the restaurant to eat their food. Ginjima and Suna sat down to plates of specials, the former enthusiastically mopping up the jus with a hunk of bread, while the latter sat quietly savouring every taste.

“Something wrong, Suna-kun?”

“No, it’s good.” He sampled the duck again, pondering. “One of the customers was shaking salt over this and I don’t really understand why?”

As Atsumu started to protest about scrub customers and the chefs knowing best, Kita kept the smile to himself. Suna, he was sure because of the way Ginjima and Osamu were silent, was attempting to wind him up, to see if he would crack.

“People have different tastes,” was all he said. “Make sure the salt cellars are refilled.”

“Whatever happened to our discerning customers?” complained Atsumu.

“Popularity,” Aran replied wryly. “And there’s always some jerk things they know better.”

“As long as we’re not the jerks,” Kita said smoothly. He leant over, helping himself to a spoonful of ice cream. “This is very good, Osamu-kun, I wonder what would happen if you added chocolate shavings?”

“I was thinking about a rough praline,” Osamu replied. “Add some texture, too.”

“Mmm, good idea. Try, and I’ll see about adding it to the menu.”

“What he’s saying,” Aran stage-whispered, but with a wink to Ginjima, “is that although we might think the customer is wrong to add seasoning to already seasoned food, there’s no definitive way of doing things.”

“We have our own tastes,” Kita agreed, “be it cooking or … or … music.”

“No fangirl came back for the hat,” Aran said, staring at him.

“Hmm?” He feigned nonchalance, hoping it worked because he wasn’t interested, not at all, it was just that the busker had left his money and— _he looked so thin!_

Tuesday evening brought a smaller set of diners, especially as a sudden squall of a storm left any casual visitors at home, so once the reservations had been catered for, and had left during a lull in the rain, Kita took the decision to close a little earlier. “Go home,” he told them all. “I can finish up here.”

“Me too?” Aran asked, disguising the fact he’d been glancing at his watch to see whether he’d missed a train.

“Yes, I can cash up. I want to practise something and you know I like to do that unhindered.”

No one protested. Gin did offer to help clean, prompting Suna to roll his eyes and then make the same offer, but as both lived across town and were reliant on an infrequent bus, they’d have stuck around for another hour if they missed their chance.

“Go,” he assured them.

Alone, with only the sound of the dishwasher and the rain pelting down outside, Kita exhaled away the knot of tension in his shoulders. He loved his restaurant, loved cooking, loved the staff he’d hand-picked very much, but there were times when he longed for silence and the necessity of doing things his own way.

Making himself a cup of coffee, he wandered across to the freezer and pulled out the bowl of vanilla ice cream Osamu had made. It was creamy and luxurious on his tongue, sweet enough to contrast with the bitterness of the black coffee, but not so sweet it obliterated any other taste. Praline would work well with this, but he still had a hankering for chocolate.

A crash from outside, and he jerked around to check the window, but it wasn’t a storm, the noise was coming from somewhere much closer. Cranking open the back door, Kita shone the light from his phone down the alleyway. A figure was scrambling up from the tarmac before launching across to one of the garbage skips.

“Hello?” Kita called out.

The figure yelped and fell forwards into the rubbish, flailing his arms and legs as he tried to keep his balance.

“Help!” yelled a man.

“Hold on!”

“I am holding but it seems to be a mouldering bag of—ughh!”

“That’s what happens when you bin dive,” Kita retorted, and running to the skip, he pulled on the man’s legs. Legs which appeared to be clothed in deepest purple.

The man landed on the ground with a bump, then turned and grinned down at Kita. “Hey, it’s Chef-san!”

A harlequin patched shirt. “You’re the busker from earlier.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” He glanced up the alleyway. “It’s kinda wet so I’m sheltering ‘til it clears up.”

His trousers hung off him, and appraising the situation in an instant, Kita guessed he’d not eaten all day and especially not after losing his money, which could be why he’d decided to scrabble in the bins for any leftovers.

“I don’t throw away good food,” Kita hinted.

The busker was shaking rubbish out of his shirt and patting himself down. “Say what?”

“Come inside and I’ll see what I can find,” Kita replied.

“Uh… what?”

 _Ah, still has his pride!_ “I have your hat.”

“Ah… okay. Wondered where I’d left that. Could I have it?”

“Why not come inside while I find it?” Kita said, ignoring the voice in his head that sounded remarkably like Aran warning him this could be a serial killer. “At least until the rain has eased.”

“That’s … um … kind of you,” he replied and gave a goofy grin. “The kindness of strangers, right?”

Inside he appeared much taller than he had in the alleyway, and brighter too. Under the kitchen lights he removed his black hat to reveal dark red hair which clashed with his strange patched shirt.

“Hey,” he whispered, and suddenly ran back to the door, clinging onto the handle. “How do I know you’re not some modern day Sweeny Todd about to chop me up into your pies?”

“Pies aren’t on the menu this week,” Kita replied, straight-faced. “And I like to use the freshest of meats.”

The busker snorted and crept across to the table.

“Would you like a drink? Or some food, perhaps?” Kita asked lightly, trying not to look at how loose the man’s trousers were, nor how thin his hands.

“That’s very neighbourly of you, Kita-san. Unfortunately I don’t have my wallet on me.”

“No, no, it’s on me. This is a restaurant, so there’s plenty to spare.”

“Ah… okay then.” He took a seat, lifting rather than scraping it across the floor and his eyes fell on the bowl Kita had been eating from. “Ice cream … my favourite.”

“Have some duck first,” Kita replied, and began to dish out a portion, swirling the raspberry juice around it. “And potatoes, or I have rice if you’d prefer, or maybe sourdough bread.”

“Whatever.” He shrugged, then possibly realising it looked rude, he turned to smile. “Sorry, I don’t know much about food. I’ll be guided by the chef, Kita-san.”

“As you know my name, might I have yours?” Kita asked.

“Uh… sure.” He started to twist his fingers together. “I’m Tendou. Hey, I really should wash my hands!”

Pointing him towards the sink, Kita added potatoes to the plate, mash with a little sour cream and a portion of spring onions and sugar snap peas on the side. Would this be too rich for a homeless man?

Assuming he was homeless. Perhaps he was just down on his luck and scavenging for food to save a few yen. And now he examined Tendou more closely, he could see that although he was thin, he wasn’t starved, or particularly dirty. His clothes might look bizarre but they were clean and not threadbare. Even the patched shirt, was patched by design and not necessity.

“Here you are,” he said, placing the plate on the table.

“Wrap yourself round that!” Tendou declared, and began to lick his lips. “That’s what my Granny always used to say. This smells good.”

“There’s more if you want it,” Kita offered.

“Hey, let me get through this first!” Tendou grinned at him, exposing white, slightly crooked teeth. “You not joining me?”

“Ate earlier,” he replied.

“I hope you eat your _own_ food.”

“Um…” Kita leant forward. “I’ll confess something, Tendou-san: when I’ve spent all day in the kitchen, I’m often heartily sick of the dishes, especially if it’s one of the regulars and not a special. I find myself craving fast food, like tofu burgers and fries. Are you enjoying that?”

His mouth full, Tendou nodded, then wiped a smudge of jus off his chin. “Tell me, why’da serve the duck with this sauce?”

“Duck’s a fatty bird, so serving it with some kind of fruit cuts through that.”

“Like duck with plums, right? I’m guessing banana’s wouldn’t be so great.”

“Probably not.”

Tendou ate on, not devouring quickly, but taking his time, much like Kita had done earlier when he’d tasted Osamu’s ice-cream. “Love this potato, even though I’m more of a fries man,” Tendou pronounced. “You really should open a restaurant, Kita-san.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

Tendou speared some of the sugarsnap peas, waving the in the air before he spoke. “Do you make a habit of feeding strangers?”

“Well, this is a restaurant.”

“Ha – yeah, I guess. I meant strangers who come in off the street … uh… after rifling through rubbish bins.”

“No, you’re the first.”

“Then I’m honoured.” He was slowing as he ate, tasting everything before finally coming to a halt and inching the plate a little away from him. “Gah, that was good. You are an excellent chef!”

“Would you like some dessert?”

“Normally I’d sell my soul for chocolate ice cream,” Tendou replied, “but I’m still savouring that miraculous duck, aaaand it’s stopped raining, so I should probably leave you to get on with whatever you were doing.”

 _Miraculous…_ “Why was that word chiming with him? OH! “Your hat,” Kita said, keeping his voice steady. “I expect you’d like it back.”

“That would be good.” Tendou accepted the hat, rubbed at the smudge on it, and then placed it backwards over his head, flattening the dark red spikes. “D’you think it’s odd I’m attached to such an old hat?”

“My assistant chefs tell me it’s a classic,” Kita replied. “Miracle Boys, is that right? From their first tour?”

“Yeah. I take it you’re not a fan?”

“Not heard of them,” Kita said, explaining. “I lived in Italy for a while learning my trade, so I must have missed them.”

“What do you like, then? Oh…” He touched his hand to his head. “Don’t tell me. I bet you’re an opera geek!”

“Sometimes. I don’t think I have a preference.”

“Not ABBA though.”

He smiled. “Not the same song three times in a row when I’m slicing chestnuts, Tendou-san. The boy band thing surprises me. I thought with your guitar, you’d be more into rock.”

Tendou gave a slow blink, and a hint of a grin ghosted his lips. “Looks are deceiving, Kita-san. Who da thought I’d have eaten such exquisite European food on a Tokyo backstreet.”

“Fair comment,” Kita half bowed to him, remembering as he straightened up the money that Tendou had collected. “There’s this as well,” he said, handing over the coins and one note he’d kept aside.

“Ahhh, my earnings. Wow, not bad for fifteen minutes,” he said, but shook his head and waved Kita away. “You keep it, Kita-san. I would say it’s payment for food, but I’m guessing that pays for a few sugarsnap peas, so how about we consider it compensation for inconveniencing you and possibly scaring away your clientele.”

“I…I’m sorry about that,” Kita said. “You’re very welcome to busk outside.”

“Naw, you were right. Better pickings at the park.”

He’d reached the back door, looking as if he were about to dash off into the dark, and Kita found his voice. “If you’re ever that hungry again, then you’re welcome to come back.”

“Huh? Oh… hungry, right. Yeah… thank you!” His eyes flicked from side to side. “Uh… anytime? Only, you ain’t gonna want to feed a guy when your bustling about in your busy kitchen.”

“After hours,” Kita conceded. “But I mean it.”

He loped off down the alleyway, calling back that he’d remember and then with a sudden, yet rather graceful, pirouette Tendou faced Kita and gave an extravagant bow. “Thank youuuu,” he sang, then twisted back and ran off into the night.

Kita watched for a while, watched as the stringbean of a man silhouetted against the streetlights, disappeared until all that was left was the blur where he’d last been, and then he closed the door, locking it behind him and finished clearing up the kitchen.

An interesting end to the evening, but not one he thought would be repeated, despite his invitation. Tendou had the air of a will-o-the- wisp, tumbleweed always on the move and never returning to one spot.

_Ah, well._

***

“She came back then?”

Kita looked up from the recipe he was devising and squinted at Atsumu. “Sorry?”

He closed the cupboard door. “The hat’s gone, so did the girl come back?”

“First tour, ‘Tsumu, she must be nearly in her twenties now,” Osamu mused. “Was she good looking?”

“Hat… oh, yes.”

“She was hot?” Atsumu queried.

“She was a he,” Kita replied and went back to his recipe, pressing his biro down hard on the paper. “And not a teenager.”

“Musta had to take his girlfriend or his kid sister,” Atsumu said. “No one else would go.”

“You did,” Suna said from the doorway. “And your brother. I’ve seen the pictures.”

“Hey, we were kids! And when did—”

“It was three years ago,” Suna added. “I bet you still know all the dance moves.”

Atsumu tried but failed to look affronted, especially when Osamu broke into giggles and did some odd flick with his foot, placing it in front of the other then spinning around. “Yeah, I still got it, bro.”

With the twins in buoyant spirits the day passed quickly, with much humour, and Kita felt warm inside as he counted his blessings, knowing he’d made the right decision both to open and with those he’d hired. Tendou might have been surprised to find a European restaurant in a backstreet but word had got around and the Wednesday lunchtime was busy enough to keep them occupied but not so busy there was no time to breathe.

At five, when they closed before the evening started up again, Kita’s sommelier appeared. Oomimi Ren worked part time for Kita, a wine waiter with impeccable credentials and a solemn face to lend gravitas to his recommendations, he’d known Kita since the early days of catering college. He carried a crate, placing it carefully on the table, and talking through each bottle.

“New find,” he told Kita, bringing out a fourth. “A muscato. It’s beautiful with caramel based dishes, or chocolate. And I have a very good Merlot, which stands up well to lamb or beef dishes. It’s gutsy.”

“Merlot with chocolate, that’s unusual.”

“Uh… no, Merlot with the meat. Muscato with the desserts. Are you okay, Shinsuke? You are …” He stared harder. “Distracted.”

“Ren’s right,” Aran said as he sat next to them. He poured a small glass of the dessert wine, swilling some through his teeth, then grimaced. “I know it’s supposed to be right with sweet food but still …”

“Philistine,” jabbed Ren, but with humour. “And how am I right?”

“Shinsuke has been a little off his game today.”

“I have something on my mind that’s all,” he murmured.

“Anything we can assist you with, Kita-san,” Atsumu said, sliding into his chair opposite.

Fleetingly a vision of dark red hair and a shit-eating smile slid into Kita’s mind, but he shooed it away. “Ice-cream,” he said and looked at Osamu. “Now summer’s close, I’d like to expand the choice.”

“Uh… sure.”

“I have some excellent recipes which you’ll be able to tweak, but they’re in Italian so I need to sort through them and translate. And…” He trailed off, caught Atsumu’s glower, and faced him. “We need to think of lighter mains, too. A lot of the cream based dishes are rich, which isn’t appealing to everyone, so if you have any ideas, Atsumu-kun.”

The smile returned, Atsumu’s eyes lighting up as sparks went off in his brain. Of all the cooks, he had the most passion, Osamu the most intuition, and Kita …

 _A dedication to keep ploughing my own furrow_.

At the end of the evening, Kita found himself taking extra care cleaning the hob and the counters, hanging around the kitchen later than normal, but he wasn’t disturbed.

The week ran smoothly. On Friday morning, Kita’s silent partner, Akagi, arrived. A farmer, he smoked and cured both meat and fish, selling to many of the restaurants in the vicinity, but it was Kita’s restaurant he’d invested in, helping him find premises when he returned from Italy.

“Books look good,” he declared with a smile as he handed over the accounts. “And bookings are on the up.” He unwrapped a packet, laying a whole salmon on the counter. “Try this. I cured it with applewood and earl grey tea. It’s …”

“Fragrant,” Kita finished, sampling some. “And good for a starter. Atsumu… Ren, want to try?”

Pouring Michinari a cup of strong black coffee, he sat with him, swapping ideas for menus, as the others tucked into the samples.

“Enough about the restaurant,” Michinari said at last. “How are you settling into city life?”

“It’s good,” he replied, not adding that he’d barely seen anything of the city beyond his restaurant walls.

“No hankering to hot foot it back to Europe?”

“Not yet. Give me another six months and maybe I’ll be pining for the Italian countryside, but … uh … for now, I’m settled, and the compensation of being my own boss is worth it.”

“Mmm, I get that.” He gulped at his coffee, seemingly unaffected by its heat, and Kita wondered idly if Akagi were unaffected by temperature because he spent so much time with fires and hot fragrant smokes singeing the air. “But don’t let it take over, right. I know it has to for a while, but get out and about once in a while. Leave this place to the kids for an afternoon, and have some fun, alright. Been ages since you came over and Kuga misses you.”

“I’ll be sure to make it over, just not yet.”

The weekend melded into two days of rush and bustle, butterfingered plate smashes, two table cloths stained beyond any laundering, and the Miyas having a cataclysmic row over just whose fault it was that sugar had been mixed up with the salt and ruined a batch of pastry.

But the weekend passed in flash, too, the busiest yet and as the dramas (apart from the tablecloths) had been left to the kitchen, the takings were at record levels.

“Go home and cool off!” Aran ordered Osamu.

“What about him!” He jabbed a finger at Atsumu.

“As you share a flat, then I’m guessing Aran-san doesn’t want a reopening of hostilities,” Suna replied.

“Atsumu stays here for a while,” Kita said. He brought out a folder, handing it over to Osamu. “Go through these recipes, and then come in earlier tomorrow.”

Mollified, Osamu left quietly, even if he did huff, and Atsumu’s scowl left his forehead when Kita handed him another folder.

“I liked your idea about risotto, Atsumu-kun,” he said quietly. “I translated some recipes for you, so why not look through these while you’re here and we can discuss.”

“I didn’t put the salt in that pastry, you know? Osamu was making that batch,” he muttered when the others had left.

“I know that,” Kita replied. “But you did refill the jars, and somehow the lids got mixed up. I’m not blaming you, or Osamu. Accidents happen, and it was only one batch of spoiled pastry, but …”

“Don’t fight in the kitchen, right?”

“Certainly not when there are knives and hot liquids in the vicinity.”

And perhaps it was a good thing that the pair of them were undisturbed. Certainly it was a productive hour, with Atsumu at his innovative best, and yet as they worked, he paused occasionally thinking he heard the snatch of a refrain, and perhaps the strum of a guitar. But no one knocked on the door.

Atsumu gave a yawn, stretched then offered to put the rubbish out. It was as he opened the back door, that the music Kita thought he’d heard earlier became clearer. It was very definitely a guitar, but when he joined Atsumu in the alleyway, there was no one there.

As Kita climbed the stairs to his flat, he paused to look out across the street. It was midnight, so not strange at all that any busker would have disappeared.

“ _Hey I just met you!_ ”

Kita was chopping onions for stock when he heard the song.

“ _And this is craaaazy!_ ”

It was Tuesday morning, a week after he’d first heard Tendou busking, and now he was back.

“ _But here’s my number—_ ”

Kita smiled.

“ _So call me maybe!_ ”

He knew the song. It had played enough on the radio when he’d been in Italy, and Tendou’s quirky voice suited the lyrics. He opened the door.

“ _And all the other boys, drive me_ —Mornin’ Kita-san! Want me to stop again?”

“No, carry on!” He paused. “Unless you’d like breakfast.”

“Breakfast… Naw, never touch the stuff. Wouldn’t say no to a coffee, though.”

He opened the door wider, let Tendou inside and then poured him a cup from the machine. Refusing cream and sugar, Tendou sat in a chair, took a slow sip and then leant back, a contented smile on his face.

“Ah, that’s good. Italian barista-style coffee.”

“Don’t let my mâitre d’ hear you say that,” Kita warned, and took a sip of his own coffee, luxuriating in the richness, and the chocolate undertones. “It’s Brazilian,” he explained when Tendou raised his eyebrows, “He’s a little proprietary about it. Most people think Brazilians sacrifice quantity for quality, but they produce some amazing speciality coffees.”

“You’re an expert on drinks, too.”

“No, I just like tasting them,” Kita replied. He got up and fetched a tin from the larder. “Try some shortbread with it.”

“You trying to feed me again?” he questioned, but nonetheless reached out for a piece. “This is good. Did you make it, or those assistants of yours?”

“I did.”

Tendou nibbled on the shortbread, a few crumbs sticking to his lips as he savoured the taste. And with the warmth of the coffee spreading through him, he became animated, his large, russet-brown eyes lighting up when Kita pushed the biscuit tin over to him.

“Take a few with you,” he said.

“That is extraordinarily kind of you, Kita-san. I must pay you something.”

“No, really. It’s nothing.”

“Then, I shall take some for a mid-morning snack, and maybe sing you a special song later. Ah, don’t look at me like that; I’ll make sure none of your customers are around.” He got up, stretching and again his shirt gaped exposing the concave stomach.

“I wasn’t complaining,” Kita protested, flicking his eyes away. “Look, I must get on now, but if you want a meal tonight, then please come back. We close early on Tuesdays.”

“Then I will,” Tendou replied and gave another flourishing bow before picking up his guitar and sprinting back out onto the street.

“Are you going to busk here?” Kita shouted.

“Maybe for a short while, but it’s not as busy this morning,” he yelled.

“Was that why you left on Sunday?”

Tendou edged back towards him. “Oh, you saw me then? You looked … um … occupied.”

“Atsumu. He’s one of the chefs.”

“Ah, I see.” He seemed happy with that and sprinted back to his busker’s spot.

Kita left the door ajar and soon enough Tendou began his song.

‘ _Hey, I just met you. And this is craaaaazy. But here’s my number…_ ’

“So call me maybe,” Kita replied, under his breath. 

He continued to hum for the rest of the day, much to the amusement not only of the Miyas but Aran, too, who wanted to know just what had shaken Shinsuke out of his usual stolid demeanour.

“A sugar high!” Atsumu declared on looking at the biscuit tin. “Most of the shortbread’s gone!”

On Wednesday, they were trialling the new summer menu, so both Miyas came in early to prepare. Kita, having spent the previous evening laughing with Tendou over a trial version of prawn and mushroom risotto, stifled several yawns as he listened to them bicker, but didn’t feel his usual compulsion to tell them to stop. It was as if he’d lightened up with the season’s sunshine, which, he told himself, was no doubt down to the delicious aromas emanating from Atsumu’s pan, and the contented purr of the ice cream machine as Osamu perfected his recipe.

When Aran arrived, he joined in the tasting, and made hurried notes to hand over to the wait staff so they could advise the guests, then he sat on the front desk, ensuring the till was stocked and the credit card machines were working.

“Hmm?” He looked puzzled, walking back into the kitchen. “Gin-kun, I thought you bought two new tablecloths.”

Gin looked up from washing his hands. “I did. They’re in the laundry cupboard.”

“Did you take the money from petty cash?”

“No, from the till.” He bit his lip, sounding defensive. “Kita-san told me to.”

“I did.” Kita replied. “That will explain any shortfall.”

Aran frowned. “There isn’t a shortfall—that’s what I’m querying. Gin, are you sure you took it from the cash register and not the petty cash tin?”

“Till, definitely.”

Then he huffed out a breath. “I guess I must have put the wrong amount in at the beginning of the week.”

“Maybe one of those American dudes left us a tip,” Atsumu said, shaking his head.

Aran considered. “Maybe. But they usually make a song and dance about it.”

“And they were guests of Sakamichi-san,” Suna put in.

“Make a note of it,” Kita said. “The other option is that we’ve overcharged someone, so if you can remember who paid in cash and not a card, then let’s puzzle it out from there.”

***

“Lemonade, this is nice,” Tendou said, two Tuesday evenings later. “Did you make it yourself?”

“One of my waiters made it,” Kita told him. “Ginjima’s grandmother has a lemon tree in her garden and they’ve made lemonade for years. It’s refreshing don’t you think?”

Tendou wiped his brow. “It is for a parched busker, who’s spent all day on his feet. Your waiter’s grandma is a genius, you should hire her!”

“Her name’s on the menu, and I paid her for the recipe,” Kita replied. He leant back in his chair, relaxed and marvelling that the habit of Tendou dropping round for food and a chat had become ingrained so quickly. “How is the busking business?”

Tendou grinned. “In this weather and playing happy songs, everyone’s generous.”

“They don’t want to listen to anything too deep when the sun’s shining.”

“Aaand there you go again, Kita-san, putting down the lightness. Music should evoke emotions, don’t ya think?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And a smile or laughter is just as relevant as a tear. And maybe more valuable.”

“Valuable?”

“I don’t want to get on my high horse, but this is the same reaction you had to me strumming ABBA songs, or when you found out my hat had a boy band logo on it. Not everything has to be high falutin’ opera or songs that make you wanna curl up in bed for a week.”

“And you’re assuming I listen to opera all the time. I went when I lived in Italy because … why wouldn’t I? But it’s not something that I do regularly. I like different songs, can’t say I’m attached to a particular artist, but something that makes me feel or remember …” He licked his lips, noticing that Tendou was gazing at him with interest rather than scorn. “Call Me Maybe, for instance. You singing that reminded me of when I first arrived in Europe and everywhere was playing it. But if it hadn’t been for that particular memory that attached itself to me, then I’d have slid over the song as … peripheral … like a puff of salmon foam. Pleasant but not substantial.”

“And you think all music should be substantial,” Tendou deadpanned.

“No, no, you are misunderstanding me. And I think that’s deliberate, Tendou, so I’m going to stop debating this with you and—”

“You want me to leave?” His mouth drooped. “Hey, I’m sorry. I guess I like riling you up, but I’ll shut up next time. If there is a next time.”

“No, I want you to sit there and prepare yourself for some ice cream,” Kita said and gave him a smile, pleased that in his own way he could disconcert Tendou.

“You’re letting me have dessert before main. Wow, I’m honoured, Kita-sama!”

Kita snorted. “It’s double chocolate. ‘Samu made some today and I thought you’d like to try it before you have your mouthful of rice and declare you’re full.”

“’Samu?” Tendou ignored the slight on his appetite. “That’s the kid who’s good with pudding, right?”

“Exceptional. Sit back down and I’ll get you a bowl.”

“How’s Atsumu coping with not bein’ the rising star any more?”

Kita turned round, hand on the freezer door. “He’s biding his time. He knows his brother is good, but he also knows his own worth.”

“They’re lucky to have you, Kita. You understand them and lead well. There was me thinkin’ ‘too many cooks spoilt the broth.’”

“If you and a few other buskers got together, you’d need someone to keep time, wouldn’t you?”

He let out a sigh, sadness appearing from nowhere to engulf him. “Yeah.”

And Kita wanted to ask what the matter was, not least because a happy, relaxed Tendou was likely to eat more, but Tendou wore an uncustomary closed expression, his eyelids shuttering his most expressive eyes and the smirk he usually presented had drooped again. Even his hair seemed flatter. But they were not on those sort of terms.

“Hey, eat up while it’s still cold,” Kita murmured and nudged the ice cream towards him.

“You’re one of the good guys, Kita,” Tendou breathed, and slid the spoon into the bowl. He lifted some ice cream to his lips slurping it on his tongue and half a smile reappeared. “Ice cream honestly makes everything better, make sure you tell Osamu that, ‘k?”

On Friday, the doorbell rang just as Kita entered the kitchen.

“Delivery for Kita’s,” a man read off his clipboard.

“I’m not expecting anything,” he said, puzzled.

“Look, mate, I just deliver where I’m s’posed to.”

He squinted at the package, noting a familiar supplier and the word ‘sample’ scrawled in pen on the top. Accepting it in both arms, Kita carried the parcel into the kitchen, slicing open the tape with a knife. He frowned at the contents, pulling out a series of jars of coffee, although the jars were big for samples. There was no note attached explaining the extra delivery, merely a ‘thank you for your order’ from the company.

“Did you order this?” Kita asked Aran when he walked in.

“Nope…” He opened a jar and inhaled. “It’s good stuff, though.”

“‘ _Cuz after aaallll, you’re my wonderwaaaallll_ ‘– Kita-san. You took your time opening up today.”

“I was listening to the song,” he replied, not lying. “Coffee? Or can I tempt you with some breakfast?”

“You could tempt me with something, but—OOOH, you’re blushing, Kita-chan—” He laughed, throwing his head back as he twirled around. “To spare those pretty pink cheeks, I’ll settle for a cup of tea if that’s possible?”

“You don’t wear your cymbals anymore?”

Stretching out, Tendou grimaced. “Well, this chef came out of his restaurant and had a go at me, so I figured they could put the punters off, too.” He refused milk and sugar, taking the tea black and blew across the cup rim to cool it. “How’s business, Kita-san?”

“It’s good. We’re busy. And you?”

Pausing, he sipped his tea. “An opportunity has come up, so I … uh … won’t be around for a while.”

“Oh… something interesting?”

“Mmm, could be. Requires some … um … training, so I’m leaving for a while. “

“When?”

“Tomorrow, so, I have to get my shit together, pack some stuff. That kind of thing.”

“Is this you saying goodbye?” Kita asked, keeping his voice level and light as if this brief interlude in his life that would soon be over were of no consequence.

“Well, I was kinda hoping I could have a last meal with you tonight, but this one’ll be on me.”

“Tendou, this is a kitchen. It’s full of food. It honestly doesn’t cost me anything to provide the occasional meal, and—” He stopped talking, stopped because Tendou had pressed his finger to Kita’s lips.

“No arguments, Kita-chan.”

“I can’t simply leave—”

His lips caught Tendou’s finger, who smiled then raised both his hands. “I know. I’ll come round, same as always. Hasta mañana.”

“Mañana is tomorrow!”

“Really. Wow, ya learn something new every day. Hasta … uh … Tonighta, Kita-san.”

And then he was gone, tumbleweed bowling out the door wherever the wind took him.

Risotto, salmon and salads were the order of the day and night. Summer was kicking in with a vengeance now, and the need for lighter food, refreshing food, was topmost in the diners’ choices. A group of eight turned up, men and women in good clothes and large wallets saying to Aran, when he asked, that they’d heard good things about _Kita’s_.

“Who are they?” Atsumu asked Suna when he came back into the kitchen, telling everyone they were fulsomely praising the food.

“Media people,” Suna replied, a little dismissively, outwardly snorting when the twins’ ears pricked up.

“ _Famous_ media people?” Osamu wondered.

“Maybe they’d like to meet the chefs.”

“Look at that,” Suna snarked. “They’ll start fighting over who gets the TV series next. Anyway, five want ice cream, and three more lemonades.” He hung the order onto the hook and pushed through the double doors.

Gin bustled in, more forthcoming than Suna. “The one in the green dress, that’s Kimi-chan,” he said, peeking through the window with Atsumu. “And I think the man in the checked shirt is her agent.”

“Who is Kimi-chan?” Kita asked.

“She’s a cute singer,” Gin replied, eager to inform. “Had a really popular song last year.”

“Kiss me, Kimi, Kimi!” warbled Atsumu. “Wow, we’re pulling in the celebs.”

“Celebs on the comeback trail,” Osamu snorted.

“If she was popular last year, then how can she already need a comeback?” Kita asked Osamu.

Osamu yawned into his shirtsleeve. “That’s the way it works, Kita-san. Bit like food going in and out of fashion.”

“Good food is timeless,” Kita asserted. “But I suppose everyone needs a change every now and then. Osamu, pour the lemonade and serve the ice cream. Gin, wait to take everything out, will you?”

He was clock-watching now, not only concerned about the food and whether it would make it to the tables in time, but how fast they could clear without making it seem as if they were hustling their guests out of the establishment.

“You’ve worked hard,” Kita said, closing the door behind him and locking up. “If you want to go and leave the clearing up to me then…”

“We can’t do that!” Atsumu protested, clearly scandalised.

“Many hands make light work, Shinsuke,” Aran said, a small smile on his face. He tugged on Kita’s arm, pulling him away from the others. “What gives?”

“Huh?”

“Tuesdays, just recently, you let us leave early. I’m not complaining, but …. I’m curious.”

“It’s one of our least busy nights, Aran,” Kita replied smoothly. “It won’t happen on a Friday, I assure you.”

“So, I’m imagining it, right?” Aran squeezed his shoulder. “You are allowed a life outside this restaurant, Shinsuke, and if we can help make it easier, then just ask, okay?”

Touched he nodded but didn’t say a word, partly because to speak would confirm Aran’s suspicions, but also because a rather scratchy lump had formed in his throat. And the thing was, there wasn’t anything outside the restaurant going on, merely that for the past five weeks, his Tuesdays had been tweaked to include something a little out of the ordinary, something he looked forward to in a way he didn’t think was possible.

Aran leant closer. “You might want to change your shirt. You’ve got cheese sauce splattered on the front.”

It was a short while later, after the others had left when Kita re-emerged from his flat wearing a turquoise shirt which he hoped didn’t look as new as it actually was. Not that he’d bought it for tonight, as it had been in his wardrobe for a while, but he’d never found any occasion to wear it.

The kitchen was clean, the dishwasher on its last load, and the washing machine in his flat was whirring as it laundered not just his apron, but the napkins, too. All he could do now was wait. And he felt rather stupid doing that in his own kitchen with nothing to do. Maybe he could go upstairs and listen out for Tendou’s rap on the door, or perhaps he should wait in the restaurant and sort through the menus. (Not that they needed sorting as Aran was meticulous in that respect.)

Then, just as he’d decided to fetch a book, there was a series of knocks on the door.

Tendou stood in the doorway, wearing (for him) unusually understated black and grey striped trousers, and a mulberry shirt. Without his usual beanie, his hair spiked skyward and he carried a bag in his hand, but the most remarkable thing was the dark red rose he held between his teeth.

“Kta-shn,” he tried to say, then removing the rose and handing it over, he bowed his head. “Kita-san, you’re here!”

He accepted the rose with a smile, sniffed it and was surprised to find it was real. “What a surprise it is to see you, Tendou-san.”

“Ah, I was in the neighbourhood, and I brought food!” He waved the bag in front of Kita. “This is insulated, so it should stay hot for a while.”

“Drink?”

Coming right inside the kitchen and closing the door with his foot, Tendou placed his bag on one of the counters, and nodded. “That’s _very_ civilised of you.”

“I have wine, beer, or something soft, if you’d like. Also there are spirits in the restaurant, if you’d rather, or some horrible cooking sherry in the larder.”

“Hmmm, white wine would be good. Small, though.”

Turning his back, Kita headed to the wine chiller, bringing out a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc that Ren had told him was good with most dishes. So why, if he had this much confidence in the wine selection, were his hands shaking? And why the heck did this feel so much like a date?

He poured two glasses, handed one to Tendou, and accepted the chink of the glass.

“To … um … friendship,” he offered.

“Yeah, that too,” Tendou replied. His voice was a little huskier than usual, and he gulped at the wine, probably in an attempt to clear the rasp. He took the proffered seat at the table, but didn’t stretch out as was customary, instead keeping his limbs close and curled. “I’ve enjoyed these little meet-ups, you know. It’s been a kind of highlight these past few weeks, so … uh … thanks for that.”

“Your life’s about to change with the new job, surely. There’ll be a lot more highlights.”

“Hmm, maybe.” He took a more measured sip. “Nice wine.”

“Have things been that bad for you?” Kita asked.

“Uhm, well, it was more I was in kind of a dark place inside, but digging out the guitar helped. And meeting you, of course.” He held Kita’s eyes before glancing to the side. “Your food seems to have done me a lot of good,” he added, a little too brightly. “Anyway, tell me about your day. Restaurant busy?”

“It has been. I wondered if I’d be able to close on time tonight as we had a large party in and …oh, you might know the person, as all my staff did… but it was a singer … uh … Kimi something. Atsumu sang one of her songs.”

“Kiss me, Kimi Kimi!” Tendou’s voice hitched into a falsetto.

“That’s it!”

“Got called a one hit wonder,” he said, but not dismissively. “Actually she’s a nice—” He twisted his fingers. “She’s got a nice voice and the song gets sung all over the world.”

“If you’d like to listen to music, we have CDs next door,” Kita suggested, after a while. “In fact, we could move through there, if you’d like. And it’s a lot more comfortable than sitting in here.”

Tendou acquiesced, picking up his glass of wine, and the insulated bag and followed Kita through the double doors that led to the restaurant. And on the bar, not cleared away, lay a white tablecloth, a candle, and a note in Aran’s handwriting saying, ‘Have fun, Shinsuke’.

“What’s that you’ve got there?”

“Ah, my mâitre d’…” Kita tried a smile, but it wobbled. “He … um … seems to think this is a date. Look, the CDs are over there, so you have a look through and put on anything you want. It’s not very contemporary though.”

“Maybe it is,” Tendou muttered, his fingers hesitating over one of Kita’s personal musical favourites.

“No, it’s really not. There’s the odd musical in there, from shows I’ve seen, but the rest is traditional or classical—”

Tendou looked back over his shoulder. “I meant, Kita-kun, that maybe it is a date. It … um … could be if you wanted, or … yeah … sorry … forget I said that. I come out with all kinds of crap when I’m hungry and… did I tell you I’m hungry, genuinely hungry today because I wanted to make sure I had space left for ice cream and—” He stopped abruptly and slugged at his wine. “I’ll shut up now.”

“You want this to be a date?”

Tendou blinked. “Is that a problem, Kita-kun? Is it an issue that I like you in that way? ‘Cause I also like talking to you, like spending time with you, and I’d hate to rot that up if …”

And he knew how he was going to reply, even before he’d billowed out the cloth across the table for two in the corner and smoothed the creases. “It’s not an issue,” he said softly. “In fact, it’s whatever the opposite of an issue is, and yes, I’d like it to be. A date, that is.”

And suddenly, despite the ‘issue’ being settled, he was more nervous, his heart starting to thump against his rib cage.

“You’ve now gone quite a pretty shade of pink,” Tendou said. “You sure this is okay?”

“Uh…” Kita glanced up, then snorted. “You’re not exactly pale and interesting yourself, Tendou.”

“Ha… yeah, I’m thinking that anticipation is one thing, like there’s one hurdle we’ve vaulted but then a whole lot of others and—oh.”

He wasn’t sure what impulse had driven him to cross the floor like that. Perhaps it was to stop Tendou fumbling, the wine in his glass slopping over the rim, or maybe it was that it sometimes paid to take a risk, however straightforward the recipe. Kita stepped up to him, touched Tendou’s flaming cheek with his fingertips, and then tilted his face up.

The scent of the rose had clung to Tendou’s skin. His lips were cool, slightly roughened, and a little moist. He tasted of wine and mint as if he’d scrubbed his teeth or crunched a pack of polos before arriving. And Kita smiled to himself because for someone who was so cocky when busking, Tendou’s hands were shaking and his heart was battering through his chest.

He broke away first. “Wowee, my head’s spinning. That was unexpected. Good unexpected, I mean,” he qualified, then just as he ran his finger across Kita’s mouth, his stomach gave an enormous rumble.

Laughing, Kita tugged him towards the table. “Eat before you faint on the spot. Do we need plates? Do you need to prepare anything?”

“You sit down and let me sort it out,” Tendou replied, and with a grin he opened up his bag and produced two large plastic plates.

“Are we having a pic—”

And then through the double doors, someone bounded through. “Yo, Kita-san, sorry to bother you but I left my…oh …OH!” Osamu stared, his mouth agape, and whatever words he’d been about to say, he swallowed back.

Kita recovered first. “Osamu, come in. This is a friend of mine. Tendou, this is Miya Osamu, who makes the chocolate ice cream you like so much.”

But Tendou, instead of greeting Osamu with a smile and a wise cracking compliment, was crumpling a paper napkin between his fingers.

“Satori-san!” Osamu breathed. “It’s you!”

“Ahh, yeah, it’s me alright, kid.”

“Oh, you know each other?”

“No …” Tendou drifted off, and then took a breath. “Hey, Kita, it’s like this. I shoulda told you, but—”

“I used to go to all your concerts,” Osamu continued, his voice becoming breathy, his eyes wide and animated. “Are you really getting back together? Only there was this report that Wakatoshi-sama was back in the country, and ‘Tsumu swore he saw Eita-san getting into a taxi the other day.”

“What’s this?”

“Miracle Boys, Kita-san. That group I was telling you about when you found that hat. This is Tendou Satori, one of –” He blinked several times, stared at Tendou, who now had his head in his hands, and then back to Kita. “Whoaaaaa… you must be incognito, right, Satori-san. S-sorry for disturbing you. I’ll … um … go. And I won’t say a word!” He backed away into the kitchen and the click of the back door echoed between them.

“Well, this is … um … awkward.”

“You’re a famous pop star,” stated Kita, keeping his voice level.

“Um… yeah. Not like Carly Rae famous, or you’d have heard of us, but—”

Semantics; Kita cut through them. “Not homeless.”

Tendou raised his hands as if in supplication, his eyebrows question-marking in the middle of his forehead. “I never said I was homeless!”

“I fed you.”

“And if you remember I offered to pay, but you… you refused, Kita, so I kind of stopped offering.” His stomach rumbled again, and he reached back into the bag. “Can we talk about this over the food?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Huh?”

“You lied to me.”

“No, no I didn’t. Not really.”

“By omission, definitely. I thought you were jobless.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Well, I kinda I was.”

“But not broke.”

Tendou groaned. “No, not broke. Look, I was planning to come clean tonight. This ‘job’ training, it’s us seeing whether we can get back and work on an album together.” He shrugged. “Maybe even a tour.”

“You could have told me before tonight. Or was this just an elaborate joke to you?”

“Huh? Why are you getting so het up? … Oh …” He whistled. “I get it. You felt good having me as a charity case, right?”

“No, no, that’s not it!”

“Pitying the poor busker who can barely scrape enough money together for a meal?” Tendou glared across at him, his lips (lips that Kita had just kissed) thinning and his eyes hooded again.

“You could have told me weeks ago,” he repeated through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, well, perhaps I didn’t think it would matter to you!” Tendou said, glowering. “Seems I was mistaken, and you’re as hung up on this shit as the rest of them.” Reaching back into the bag, he pulled out a package, dropped it onto one of the plates, and then stepped away. “Enjoy your food!”

And then he strode away, storming through the double doors so fiercely, they swung in his wake and before Kita could register that he was leaving, the back door had slammed shut.

On the plastic plate was a polystyrene box and a couple of paper napkins. Touching it, Kita registered it was still warm, and flipped the lid open. He sniffed then gulped in a breath as he spied the food.

Tofu burger. Tendou had remembered one throwaway remark and acted upon it.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt this miserable.

 _You should have let him explain, Shin-chan,_ said a voice in his head.

“I know, Granny,” he sighed.

Sleep was difficult. It was even harder because every time he heard a noise from outside, he got up to look out of his window, wondering if Tendou had come back. But he didn’t, and when dawn filtered through his blind, Kita knew he wouldn’t return.

Why would he? Tendou Satori was famous. Why bother coming back to play at his homeless busker act when his cover had been blown? As that thought took hold, Kita clenched his jaw, feeling cold and angry inside.

_He could have told me._

_Why does it matter?_

_Because it’s the same as before._

_Really?_

He closed his eyes hoping it would stop the argument raging in his head.

In the kitchen, he baulked seeing a deep red rose left on the counter, not quite withered, but drooping when he picked it up. He carried it over to the bin, ready to throw away, and then—on a whim—Kita sandwiched the rose between two sheets of kitchen paper and placed it inside one of his heavier recipe books.

He got on with his usual routine, keeping a lid on regrets and what-might-have-beens, preparing the restaurant for the day ahead.

Osamu turned up with Atsumu and wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. Waiting for the first smart remark, Kita braced himself, but the only jibe Atsumu made between yawns was at his brother.

“Your hat’s there, scrub,” he said, and picking up a cap, he flung it at his brother. “How couldn’t you see that?”

“I dunno,” Osamu mumbled, his eyes downcast. And when Atsumu had wandered into the larder, Osamu let out a tiny breath. “I didn’t say anything about ... uh—”

“Thank you.” His hand shaking, he passed Osamu his sheaf of ice cream recipes. “Want to try that praline one today.”

“Oh, cool. Yeah, thank you!”

And that was the good thing about Osamu. He might be as volatile as his brother, and could lose his rag spectacularly when provoked by him, but he was also quieter and could be trusted to keep a lid on his words, especially when they affected someone else.

Suna arrived, rolling his eyes, with Gin bustling in afterwards, a huge smile on his face. “Hey, Atsumu,” Gin called out. “You know when you said you saw Eita-san getting into a taxi?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s true!” Atsumu snapped. “I wasn’t mistaken or makin’ it up!”

“I believe you!” Gin practically yelled. “I just saw Tsutomu!”

“No, you saw someone with a bowl cut in a car,” Suna drawled.

“In a limousine! And it was outside the record company.” He turned to Osamu. “I think those rumours are true.”

“Getting back together, you mean,” Atsumu interjected. “Well, I guess Wakatoshi’s solo career didn’t get off to the start he wanted.”

“Hey!” Aran bellowed from the restaurant side of the doors. “Kita-san does not want to hear about celeb gossip. What do you think this is? A rest day?”

“But… I also saw Kimi-chan in the limousine,” Gin continued. “And she was in here yesterday, so that’s not gossip and Kita-san might be interested in that! What if she told Tsutomu about our great food? They might all come in here.”

“Ow!”

Five pairs of eyes turned to Kita.

“You’re bleeding!” Aran said, unnecessarily because Kita could see crimson weeping from his finger.

“Looks deep,” Osamu muttered, and stepped over to him, taking Kita’s hand and holding it aloft as he steered him towards the sink.

“I’m okay,” Kita said, and let the cold water wash over his hand. “Had plenty of cuts before.”

“It _is_ deep. You might need a stitch.”

“Hospital?” Aran queried.

“No. I’ll wrap it, wear a plastic glove and you and Atsumu can take over the plate assembling. Prep’s practically done. Get on with the work.” He nudged Osamu. “Go on. I’m fine.”

With Kita more or less on the sidelines, they pulled together as a team. Osamu’s concentration intensified, and he worked like a fury, only equalled by Atsumu sharpening his observation skills and speeding up as he assembled plate after plate of food. And, yes, they were lucky it was a Wednesday lunchtime and not a Friday, and it wasn’t as busy as the day before, but as they sat down for their break, Kita joined them, supremely grateful how they’d all worked.

“As we’re not working now…” Gin began, with a flickered glance to Aran.

“If this is about Kimi-chan,” Aran warned. “Or any other speculation.”

“But, she _is_ a customer!” protested Gin. “And I … Ah, okay.” He returned to his drink, taking a slug of the iced water, perhaps hoping his face would stop flaming.

“Gin-kun’s right,” Kita said quietly. “I should learn about our … uh … customer base.”

Emboldened, Gin crinkled up his nose. “So, if I did see Tsutomu…”

“Reunion, you mean,” Atsumu considered.

“They didn’t exactly split,” Suna put in, then pressed his lips together, annoyed he’d betrayed an interest.

“Pursuing individual projects,” Atsumu yawned. “Yeah, yeah, heard it all before.”

“Semi Eita acts,” Gin said. “He’s just finished a run in a musical. And Ushiwaka made a solo album.”

“Kawanishi left,” Atsumu explained to Kita. “He’s married and they had a kid and he didn’t want to tour any more. Think he got into production.”

“Tsutomu has been presenting kids TVshows and he was supposed to be recording a duet with … OH….” Gin’s eyes were round. “That’s why she was in the limo. Don’t you remember the rumour? He was gonna be recording with Kimi-chan.”

“That’s right!” Atsumu highfived Gin.

“Are you sorry you let them continue?” Aran asked Kita in an aside.

“No, it’s interesting… sort of,” he murmured before clearing his throat. He averted his eyes from Osamu, praying he’d keep his mouth shut. “So there were four Miracle Boys?”

“No five,” Suna replied. “They’ve not mentioned the oddball yet.”

“Oddball?” He forced himself to sound uninterested.

“Tendou Satori,” Osamu mumbled.

“My brother’s favourite,” Atsumu replied, laughing. “Thought he was really cool. The only one who’s done nothing since, though.”

“Why was he the ‘oddball’?” Kita asked.

Suna gave a wry grin. “It’s all image. Wakatoshi was the strong, stoic lead, Tsutomu the cute kid, Eita-san was … well is… the heartbreaker because of his good looks, Kawanishi was… uh …”

“The reliable one,” Gin added.

“And so Satori was the bad boy, not that he was bad exactly, but he was kind of weird.”

“Unpredictable,” Osamu said, and looked straight at Kita. “He was great on stage. Lively and engaged with the audience well. Inspiring.”

“When he was on form,” Atsumu countered.

“But he sometimes wasn’t?”

Osamu didn’t reply, leaving his twin to fill in the blanks. “He got burnt by some shitty kiss and tell. There was a model he dated, and she sold her story.”

“She wasn’t a model at the time,” Suna scoffed. “Famous by association.”

“Right, that’s enough!” Aran told them. “Can we talk about something a little less frivolous?”

“Leave them, they’re having fun,” Kita said in an aside. “And they’ve worked hard this afternoon.”

“Yeah, I know.” Aran smiled, almost fondly as the four finished up their food, Osamu collecting up the plates to take to the sink. “You do know what this means, don’t you?”

“Hmm?”

“You, Shinsuke, can take a day off, not just a couple of hours, but a whole day or even two. _Kita’s_ won’t collapse without you.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Wednesday came and went, and as he walked up the stairs to his flat, his limbs leaden, Kita nonetheless heaved out a sigh and began to roll his shoulders. It was too late for Tendou to come back now. He’d be on a plane or in a limo, perhaps, heading for whatever recording studio the band were going to hole up in for a month. And Kita would survive. His world would be a little dimmer for a while, but that was all.

The reunion story was splashed all over the papers by the weekend. It also made the television news with celebrity gossip journalists shrieking either approval or scorn at the promise of another Miracle Boys album and a possible tour.

And he could hardly avoid pictures of them popping up at the end of every news bulletin, of interviews with excited fans, and the endless speculation as to why they were getting back together and how long it would last this time.

Tendou appeared regularly. The others had said he was the oddball, and clearly the media loved him because they ran several stories debating what he’d been doing when the others had embarked on solo projects, and photographs of him laughing on stage, pulling goofy faces, or cartwheeling in the park became standard pictures in every paper.

They dragged up old articles, too. Not just the model’s kiss and tell (which turned out to be a lot milder than the lurid headline suggested) but a number of tales had been unearthed from his school days, stories that when he read them made Kita’s heart both ache and fume.

It was thirteen days after the argument that another picture appeared in the paper, that of Tendou walking out of a restaurant in Sappora, the darkest of sunglasses shrouding his eyes, and helping a girl into a car. A deliciously pretty girl, and one—despite knowing nothing about music—Kita recognised her as Kimi, the singer who’d recently eaten in his restaurant and sipped their lemonade.

‘KISS ME SATORI-TORI’ screamed the headline, the vultures intent on a celebrity romance. And Kita knew there was nothing that could be divined from such an innocent snap, a gentlemanly act from Tendou, but it didn’t stop the hollow in his chest from widening.

“You look like shit,” Aran said bluntly when he saw Kita that Monday morning.

“Bad night’s sleep, that’s all.”

“Just one? You’ve got zombie eyes!” Aran approached and with a quick sleight of hand untied Kita’s apron. “It’s Tuesday. We’re not busy. Take the day off. Sleep … no, scrap that, you won’t be able to stop yourself checking up on us. Go out for the day, or even overnight. Go and … go and see Akagi!”

“Akagi?”

“Yes, remember him? Your friend from school and business partner? Has that stupid soppy dog. You’ve been promising him you’ll visit, so why not go now?”

“I can’t leave all this.”

“Yes. You. Can.” Aran ordered and frogmarched him up the stairs and to his flat. “We’ll cope, or don’t you trust us?”

“Of course I do, but this is unplanned.”

Aran glowered at him. “Stop living by the recipe and take a deviation for once in your life, Shinsuke! GO!”

And with Aran threatening the drastic action of locking both restaurant doors until he left the premises, Kita suddenly didn’t have the energy to refuse. He changed into shorts and t-shirt, rinsed his hands and face again, and then set off for the bus stop, calling Michinari on the way.

“Whoa, is this for real?”

“Yes, I can cancel if you’re busy though!” Aran could hardly blame him for not going if Akagi were unavailable.

“No, it’s great timing. I’ve been smoking venison and need your opinion. Let me know when the bus gets in and Kuga and I’ll meet you.”

The bus trundled along busy roads, the mid-morning sun climbing higher in the sky causing him to squint away from the light, and soon it was easier to close his eyes and grab a nap. He awoke fortuitously to dusty tracks and a bus with fewer people on board. Almost at his stop, he texted Akagi and then stared out of the window, peering into the distance to catch sight of Akagi’s rusty truck.

And there he was, furiously brushing down the passenger seat and forcing Kuga into the back.

“HEY!” he yelled, causing Kuga to prick up her ears and bark when she saw him. “Hush up, you daft mutt!”

With half a smile, Kita jogged towards them, making sure he said a big hello to Kuga first, and scratched her behind the ears, before he lowered himself into Michinari’s truck. “Thanks for this.”

“Absolutely not a problem. Once I’d picked myself off the floor finding out you were actually coming over, I checked not only the venison but some plums I’ve been pickling. Aaaand a raspberry liqueur is ready, so you’ve got to try that.” He started up the van, shooting a glance sideways, then laid a hand on Kita’s shoulder. “You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine—whatever Aran’s told you.”

Coughing, Akagi stepped on the accelerator and shifted the truck up a gear, and Kita knew his guess was correct. But he didn’t mind. The knowledge he had friends who looked out for him filled the hollowness inside a little.

Akagi didn’t ask questions—it wasn’t his style—but he kept up the small talk until they got to his farm, finally growing silent as they approached the dusty track.

“You’ve painted,” Kita said, noting the whitewashed brickwork. “And that vine has grown.”

“You’ve not been here for months, Shinsuke. You can’t expect it to look the same.”

I didn’t, he tried to say, but Akagi had got out of the truck and was whistling for Kuga. Inside, it looked much as Kita remembered, paint a little scuffed, wooden floorboards swept, and the kitchen in need of some restoration but clean and serviceable. Akagi spent his money on the tools of his trade, the smoking and fermenting equipment, as well as the livestock he kept. His own comfort came second to that, and he didn’t mind admitting that his standards fell way below Kita’s. In the corner of the lounge, propped against the wall was a guitar, the product of a hobby Akagi had taken up when they were sixteen. He hitched a breath.

“You okay?” Akagi asked.

Kuga snuffled his hand, and Kita stroked her ears again. “I met someone,” he explained. “He plays the guitar.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“No. He’s gone now.”

“Well, he doesn’t deserve you, then.”

“I think it’s more the other way around,” Kita said, sniffing.

“I’ll make tea,” Akagi murmured, and touched him on the arm. “Sit down and you can tell me all about it. But only if you want.”

And because there was no pressure, and because he knew Akagi would tell no one, Kita began to talk, telling him how he’d heard this busker one day, and …

“And I don’t know why because we’re complete opposites, but…”

“You clicked. That can happen. And maybe you’re not as opposite as you thought.”

Biting his lip, thinking about the articles he’d read, Kita swallowed before continuing.

“He said he had a job and was training for a month.”

“And that wasn’t true?”

“Yes, it was true, but … and this is the part that makes me feel, I don’t know, stupid, I suppose, but I had no idea who he really was.”

“You mean he didn’t tell you his real name? Is he on the run, or something? A fraudster?”

“No, he’s … Tendou Satori.” He waited for that information to sink in, watched Akagi’s face as he digested the words, pulled a puzzled frown, and then … Enlightenment.

“OH! _The_ Tendou Satori? Miracle Boys band member. Red spiky hair, goofy smile and strange taste in clothes!”

“Yes,” Kita yelped. “That’s him, only I had no idea and I only found out because Osamu came back, and after he’d gone we … um … had words.”

“Not good words, I take it.”

He shook his head. “I felt stupid and reacted angrily. He brushed it off at first, then snapped back and left. And I didn’t understand at all because to me it was him that had lied, even if it was by omission, but …” Trailing off, he pulled out his phone, handing it to Michinari. “I read these.”

“Kiss and Tell stories. Oh, I remember this one. Big news for a day then became the lining for a rabbit’s cage the next.” Snorting, he flicked through to the next one. “What’s this?”

“His former classmates went to the papers after that.”

“And what salacious muck have they come up with? You do know the majority of celeb stuff that gets printed in these tabloids is crap, don’t you? It’s lies or exaggeration, and—”

“Read them, will you?”

Raising a sceptical eyebrow Akagi nonetheless started to read the article. And Kita could tell the moment he’d reached the significant part of the story for he shifted a little in his seat, and his eyes flicked to the sides before he finally muttered, “He’s not you, Shinsuke.”

“I agree. I had you with me. He doesn’t appear to have had anyone.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Two kids who were made to feel different because of what they were,” Kita reminded him.

“It says here he was expelled,” Akagi said. “You studied extra hard and got amazing grades.”

“Again, I had you and … studying was a good way to stay out of reach.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” Akagi asked, scratching his head. “I mean, what do you want to do now you’ve found this ‘connection’?”

“Do?”

“Yeah, the argument’s clearly bothering you, and I’m guessing it’s because you actually like this guy, so what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. He’s away. I don’t have an address or a phone number even.”

“You could contact the record company, I suppose, but they must get sackfuls of fanmail everyday. And … well … you said he’s touchy about people using his name, maybe he’d think you’re only getting in contact because he’s famous.”

“That’s ridiculous. I had no idea who he was before I kissed—”

“Oh ho ho!” Akagi smirked. “So it got to kissing, then?” He held his hands over Kuga’s ears. “Don’t listen, baby, he still loves you best!”

“One kiss! Hardly the passion of the century.” But he wiped his hand over his face.

“I’ve known you half your life, Shinsuke,” Akagi said, and sighed. “I know that for you, letting down those defences enough to kiss someone is a big deal.”

“So what shall I do?”

Clicking his tongue, Akagi nestled back into the sofa, scratching Kuga behind her ears. “That I don’t know. It’s not like you can contact him in a way that’s not public, so I think you’ve gotta sit tight and wait for him to make a move.” He puffed out a breath, making his lips vibrate. “Fortunately, you’re the most patient man I know, so I’m pretty sure you’ll get through this.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then it’s … uh … one of those things that never quite happens. I’m sorry, ‘n all that, but not everything works out however much you want it to, and feelings are like smoke in the air that you can’t catch however hard you try.”

“Tumbleweed,” Kita intoned and stared at the ceiling.

“Yeah, that too.”

***

It did help, despite having no definite plan, having someone to talk to about Tendou and not in the setting of the kitchen, relaxed Kita so much that he allowed himself to be persuaded to stay over after Akagi promised to drive him back the next morning.

“It’s still standing,” Aran said, a touch witheringly when he returned. “And the twins didn’t spill blood on the kitchen floor.”

“Hey!” they chimed in perfect unison.

“They did,” Suna put in, “but we cleaned it up properly.”

“Did you have a nice night off, Kita-san?” Gin asked, sounding solicitous.

“I had a good night’s sleep,” Kita replied, not lying. “There’s something wonderful about the country air.”

“And once Kuga left him alone, he slept like a puppy dog. Yo, Aran, any chance of a coffee?” Akagi added.

“Coffee…” Aran trailed off, a frown creasing his face.

“There’s a problem with the coffee?” Kita asked.

“No, not at all. I rang them yesterday to give some feedback on the samples they sent that’s all.”

“And?”

“They said they hadn’t sent us any samples. I queried that because maybe we’d ended up with someone else’s order, but they said there was no mistake and it had been paid for.”

“Who paid?”

“No idea. The odd thing was they said someone wandered into their head office to place the order and paid with cash. They assumed it was you or someone on your orders. They took a box with them too.” He shrugged. “Must be a mistake their end.”

“Or a generally satisfied customer,” Akagi debated, “who is _unsatisfied_ with the coffee.”

“People are strange,” Aran sighed and then shook his head. “Right, if you want to check over the receipts from last night, they’re in the till. Osamu did a stock take and Atsumu suggested some specials based on what we have in the larder.”

“That’s … fine. Thank you. The mackerel is a good idea, Atsumu, especially with the almonds.”

Life went on; it continued much the same way as a cake being baked. Once the ingredients were mixed and it was placed in the oven, then there was nothing left to do except wait, and check in occasionally. Kita knew this. It was the way he’d always lived his life, with diligence and a plan. Tendou Satori had never been part of his plan, but an extra spice or an adornment to sprinkle on the top. He could breathe and carry on, and if nothing happened, if he never saw Tendou again, then he could treat this with nostalgia, like the memory of an aroma from herbs grown in the Italian hills. If he closed his eyes, and inhaled, he could still find its scent and picture the grasses blowing in the breeze. But then, when he closed his eyes, all he could see was a crooked smile becoming goofy when it sampled ice cream.

***

It was during a lull a week later that Osamu hovered in the doorway, and from his expression, Kita knew he wanted to talk. Atsumu was out at the market, charged with buying whatever fruit and vegetables inspired him. (It was a way Kita had devised of both rewarding and keeping them apart just when things were about to get fractious.)

“Anything the matter, Osamu-kun?” he asked, hoping his light tone concealed the dread in his gut, because even though he knew the day would come, he’d hoped to put it off for a year or more.

“Uh… it was about Satori… I mean Tendou-san.”

“Oh!” He blinked in surprise, half-relieved it wasn’t Osamu handing in his notice, half-annoyed at the intrusion. “What about him?”

“Uh… when we was talkin’ ‘bout him and Tsumu said he’d done nothin’ since the band split…” He gnawed on his lower lip and Kita resisted the urge to snap at him to get on with it. “It weren’t true,” he said finally. “I checked up on something.”

“Why? For my sake?” Kita stared at him and Osamu actually cowered.

“N-no, it’s like Atsumu said, he was always my favourite so I was curious and … he writes songs, Kita-san. At least that’s what the chat rooms say, only it’s kind of anonymous.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a writing credit on Kimi-chan’s album to Gesumonsutā and … uh … he was dubbed the Guess Monster by one of the shit-posters in the forum, ‘cause he reckoned when he got stuck in the dances, he’d make it up.” He smiled as he remembered; the corners of his eyes quirking upwards. “Might have been true, but he guessed right pretty much all the time.”

“I don’t know why you think you need to tell me this, Osa—”

“’Cause he always got a bad rep, especially when they split up, with people sayin’ he’d burnt himself out and he was the untalented one, but it was all rumour and none of the band members have said a word against him, and I know you didn’t know who he was, so I wouldn’t like you to think he was just what the papers say.”

 _Dark days,_ Tendou had said. Perhaps that was the burn-out Osamu was talking about.

“I just wanted to tell you, that’s all,” Osamu mumbled, just as the back door swung open.

“Was looking for persimmons,” Atsumu shouted, struggling with a crate as he staggered in. He “Couldn’t find any, so bought more strawberries and some really juicy blackcurrants. They taste delicious, Kita-san.”

“Wrong season for persimmon, Atsumu,” Kita chided, but gently, and smothered a smile seeing Atsumu’s purple stained chin. “Another month, maybe, and then we can start our autumn menu. Osamu, select some strawberries for that tart you make so well, and leave the rest for Atsumu, please.”

Osamu nodded, understanding implicitly that he was being thanked for his discretion as well as the information and took out a punnet of strawberries. Atsumu grumbled a little, then sloped off to help himself to lemonade. And Kita took a moment to collect his thoughts and get through the day with only a lilt of a smile in the corner of his mind to distract him.

The first weekend of September dawned with Osamu racing into the restaurant marginally ahead of his brother and lobbing something towards Suna, exhorting him to catch.

“What’s this?”

“A persimmon. Kita-san, I found some at the market. ‘Tsumu says he did, but I saw ‘em first.”

“You didn’t say anything! And I spoke to the stall holder first.”

“I paid.”

“And I negotiated a decent price,” Atsumu countered, and rolled his eyes. “You’re a child, ‘Samu!”

“I’m not the one who hid his brother’s pants so he could get to the market first.”

“Quiet!” Aran silenced them with not just his voice but his hand raised as if he were about to slap them. “Did Kita-san ask for persimmons?”

“Uh, not exactly.”

“Aran, it doesn’t matter. I told them to get what inspired them.” He picked up a fruit, squeezing gently. “These need a little more ripening if we’re to serve them, but perhaps we could make preserve.” He turned to the window and felt the sun on his face. The intense heat of summer was fading now, but there was nothing crisp in the air to warrant stews and chutneys, yet perhaps they’d need something sharp to cut into the stale warmth of the day. “Try a marmalade, and a sorbet.”

Gin loped in, apologised for being late, (he wasn’t) then handed his phone to Osamu. “Look, breaking news!”

“Huh?” And Osamu’s eyes flicked from the screen and to Kita in an instant.

“There’s going to be a press conference, when they come back from Sapporo. So I bet that’s a new album, and Tsutomu _is_ recording with Kimi-chan!” He grabbed his phone back, thrusting it at Suna. “I said I’d seen him in that car with her. Bet there’s a tour, too! Wonder if she’s the support act?”

“’The Miracle Boys have been working on new material’,” Suna read, and rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t even mean there’s an album coming up, let alone a tour.”

“It’s still big news!” Gin protested.

Atsumu swilled down some lemonade smacking his lips together before adding, “If there’s a tour, we should go. Group trip!”

Suna snorted.

His cheeks pinking a little, Atsumu shrugged. “Whatever, man. I totally meant in an ironic way.”

“I’ll go with Osamu,” Gin said, beaming. “What do you reckon?”

“Uh… yeah, I’d get tickets.” He sniffed a bit. “Nostalgia and stuff. Teenage years.”

“Is there any chance you will do some work today?” Aran grouched, threw a set of napkin rings at Gin and a dish cloth at Suna. “Get on with setting up and leave your social arrangement to your breaks!”

Kita must have involuntarily glanced at Osamu, because he jerked his head up, then stuttered out a question. “When are they coming back, Gin?”

“ENOUGH!” Aran bellowed.

But not before Gin had chirped, “Tuesday.”

Something twanged inside of Kita. The mention of the day plucking pizzicato style at his innards. Tuesday, a day he’d never given much thought to, but for a while it had been something to look forward to. He felt his cheeks flush and hurried to the cold room to select chicken. The last Tuesday that he’d seen Tendou, he’d kissed him. And although that might seem nothing to most people (he could hear his young staff laughing already), especially to a celebrity, Michinari was right because it took a while for Kita to lower his barriers, and yet somehow Tendou had knocked them down.

***

And so on Tuesday, Kita awoke knowing that Tendou would be flying back to Tokyo with his bandmates, would give a press conference and joke with the reporters. He might even cartwheel for them as he had in the past, then lean back in his chair while the others took their turn to speak.

Stepping out of the shower, Kita splashed cold water on his face, then wiped the steam from the mirror. He’d not slept well, but the shadows under his eyes were minimal, so he hoped he could avoid Aran’s scrutiny. 

There was a hammering at the door.

The back door.

The one backing onto the alleyway, which no one used except when they had to put the rubbish out or accept deliveries. And there were no deliveries due that day. Not on a Tuesday. His heart thudding as furiously as the door, Kita wrapped himself in a towelling robe and bounded down the stairs.

He flung the door open. “IT’S—”

And stopped when he surveyed the figure, slumped a little with his hands in his pockets, and water dripping off his hood. “Suna-kun, why are you here? It’s not even nine.”

“Sorry.” He shuffled his feet. “I stayed over at a friend’s last night, but he’s … uh … had to go to work, and so he kind of kicked me out and I’d have gone home, but I left my bus pass there. Might I come in? I could … um … help or something.”

“Yes, yes of course.” He stood to the side, let Suna in, and then closed the door firmly. “Have you eaten?”

“Ah, yeah. Sorry, I’ve disturbed you. You’re not even dressed yet. I could find a café.”

“No, it’s fine.” He swallowed what tasted like regret in his mouth, then forced a tight smile on his face. “Can you make me a tea, and yourself if you want one, and I’ll be right back?”

He composed himself as he dressed, dried his hair with a towel then smoothed it into place and walked at a more sedate pace down the stairs and into his kitchen. Suna was sat at the table, clutching a mug of coffee in his hands. He was shaking, and yawning, dark circles under his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips, which disappeared as soon as he realised Kita had reappeared.

“Good night?” Kita asked innocently.

“Um… yeah. Just a pain having to leave early. Sorry if this inconveniences you, Kita-san.”

“No, it doesn’t in the slightest. You can help me prep and sort out the laundry.”

And it kept his mind occupied having someone else there, even if Suna were not the most loquacious member of staff. He got him to scrape the carrots, showed him how to julienne them, while he worked on jointing a chicken and started a broth cooking.

“Anything else?” Suna asked, rubbing his hands on the borrowed apron.

“Fold napkins and set the tables,” Kita suggested. “You know how they should be.”

“Aran-san has drilled it into me,” Suna replied wryly, then blinked. “Not that I’m complaining. He’s an excellent manager. Might I listen to some music?”

“Certainly. You know where the CDs are.”

Soon he could hear the strains of the music Suna had selected. Not a particular surprise as Suna had mentioned once seeing the musical on stage. And Kita smiled a little, remembering his own experience as a young boy watching a show that had utterly enthralled him, even if at that age he’d barely understood a word.

_‘I dreamed a dream of times gone by.’_

Stirring the broth, he hummed along, blaming the onions for the wave of nostalgia that threatened to make his eyes leak. And so carried away was he in memories and melancholy that he didn’t hear another voice, another instrument, and yet the same refrain coming from another direction.

 _‘But the tigers come at night_ _  
With their voices soft as thunder.’_

He stopped, spoon in hand, letting the steam cloud his face and the pot bubble. _That’s a guitar!_

 _‘As they tear your hope apart_ _  
As they turn your dream to shame.’_

The singer on the CD, hit the perfect note. The other voice, the huskier voice, cracked, and a misplay of notes twanged the air.

_‘He slept a summer by my side’_

Kita gasped and wrenched open the door.

_‘He filled my days with endless—’_

“TENDOU!”

He was there, no rose in his teeth this time, black beanie rammed over his instantly recognisable hair, with his battered guitar and looking strangely understated in black jeans and a grey t-shirt.

Tendou gulped. _‘But he was gone when autumn came,’_ he finished with a whisper and sniffed. “May I come in, Kita-san?”

“Yes. Yes of course. Only… I’m not alone, so…”

“Hot date?” Tendou queried, and started to back away.

“Oh … No. It’s one of the waiters, Suna, he arrived very early. He’s setting up, so…”

“The snarky kid?”

“Yes, that’s him. He’s bound to recognise you, and I know that’s a problem, Tendou-san. I understand a bit more now, and … well, I guess I’m sorry for not letting you explain.”

“You’re sorry?” He raised his eyebrows so high they almost disappeared into his scalp. “I was the one who overreacted and stomped out.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Um, do you want me to come back? I understand if this is awkward, but I’d like to clear the air.”

“Stay,” Kita replied. “He’ll be discreet, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I know he will.” He shuffled his feet. “Hate to admit this, but I waited for a story to drop, ‘specially given that the rumour mills were grinding with news we were getting back together. Sorry.”

“I wouldn’t have—”

“I know, but that kid mighta done, and when I weren’t thinking clearly, I brooded too much. I’ve had some crap written about me in the past and…” He trailed off, then surreptitiously wiped at a space just under his eye.

Out of tune but enjoying the track, Suna’s voice drifted through to them.

“Let’s go to my flat,” Kita said as Tendou winced. “Suna, I’ll be upstairs.”

“Righto, Kita-san.”

“Now this is a surprise,” Tendou said, stepping over the threshold.

“What is?”

“Your flat. Downstairs your kitchen is very … um … clinical. No, I mean professional. This is … uh …”

“Homely?” Kita asked. “I have a lot of my Granny’s things here. Cookery books, pots and pans, and the table—that was hers.”

“Was?”

“She died a few years ago.” He stared at the terracotta plant pot, remembering the crocuses she grew every winter, and hoped she approved of the herbs he grew in it now.

“You must miss her.”

“I spent a lot of time with her, but sometimes I think she’s still with me. Coffee?”

Tendou rubbed his eyes. “I need to crash soon, so water’s fine.”

He fetched the water, adding an ice cube for good measure and a slice of lemon, and placed it on the table in front of Tendou.

And now neither of them knew how to start. The distance between them one of embarrassment and not really knowing each other.

Kita pulled up a chair, sitting at a quarter angle to Tendou. “I understand why you were suspicious,” he started out. “Osamu told me about the newspapers and I … um … read some of the stories.”

“Ha… yeah. Not that exciting really. I wasn’t expelled though.” He broke off. “Did you get to that one?”

“The school friend?”

“Not a friend. Kid, I was at Junior High and High School with. He crawled out of the woodwork when we were just starting to make a name for ourselves, contacted me for tickets or something. Said ‘I bet you don’t remember me…’ all that crap. Well, ‘course I remembered him. You don’t forget the kid that shoved your head down the toilet, and wouldn’t let anyone play with you.” He frowned, but there didn’t seem to be any anger there. “I had some satisfaction saying no, then he sold his story about what a weirdo I was at school and how I’d been expelled at High school for punching someone.”

“But you didn’t.”

Tendou rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, yeah, I did, but the asshole had broken my guitar. Literally caught him stamping on it and I lashed out.” His scowl became deeper. “School wouldn’t take action, so I didn’t bother going back. Gahhhd, I sound pathetic, don’t I?”

“Not at all.” Kita splayed his fingers on the table, finding strength from the grain. “I was brought up for a large part of my school time by my granny when my parents moved abroad. She was very kind and loving, but also traditional. We didn’t have a television, for instance, which made me an outsider and unable to catch up to whatever show they were all raving about, and that set me apart because I was an object of curiosity. So I know what it’s like being on the outside. I had a friend though, a good one. Did you?”

“Not really. Not then. I used to jam in the local bars for cash, and met Wakatoshi in one ‘cause he was looking for a guitarist. We got on fine, but he’s not exactly the warm best friend type.” He shook his head. “Anyway, that’s all in the past, but it kind of explains why I’m antsy about stuff, so sorry.”

“As I said, I barely let you explain. I somehow thought this was a joke at my expense. Osamu knew who you were, everyone had heard of the Miracle Boys and I was on the outside again.” He bit his lip, aware Tendou was staring at him from his heavily lidded eyes. “And you were right. I did feel good about giving food to someone I thought needed it.”

“I did need it, and I’m starting to fill out my pants again,” Tendou said and chuckled. “But I needed the company more and it was good to talk to someone who had no idea who I was. You liked me for me, and that was all.”

“Like.”

“Uh… yeah. Well you did, didn’t ya? I mean we kissed and—”

“Yes. I meant that you used like in the past tense.”

“Ah… well… you could have decided it was a mistake. I wouldn’t blame you, ‘specially not now, if you wanted to forget.”

“It’s ‘like’ in the present tense, Tendou,” Kita said softly.

“Only, this press conference is happening this afternoon, and we’re going to announce a new album and a few concert dates. Like it’s not an actual tour, just select venues to see how we go, ‘cause we got this new member as well to replace Taichi, and no one knows how Shirabu’s gonna fit in. He’s a right snarky shit, but Wakatoshi gets on well with him and he’s great at harmonies and…” He paled and then raised his head to look straight at Kita. “What did you say?”

“I like you,” Kita affirmed and smoothed one hand across the table until it was close to touching Tendou’s fingertips.

“And hey, guess what, I’m writing a couple of tracks and I’m going to be playing guitar, ‘cause I—You mean that?” he rasped. “Because I’d really love to see what could happen, but I get it if my whole lifestyle thing is too much and … um…” He gulped at his water, then ran his mouth over the back of his hand. “I really liked kissing you. Can we do that again?”

He looked so goofily eager, that Kita felt an irrepressible laugh gurgling in his throat. He leant across the corner of the table, tilted his head a little, and parted his lips. Tendou needed a second or two to register, but then he closed the distance between them, cupping Kita’s face in his hands.

Tendou nuzzled their lips together, his tongue darting inside, tentative at first, whilst his fingers slipped into Kita’s hair. He tasted of the lemon water, cool, refreshing, becoming warmer as the kiss intensified. Getting to his feet, Kita edged around the table until they were both standing, with Kita’s hands on Tendou’s waist, pulling him close. He broke away, momentarily for a breath, and Tendou’s lips drifted to his cheek, petalling a kiss on Kita’s jaw as he mazed a path to his neck.

“You smell so good,” Tendou breathed.

“Onions and chicken broth,” Kita laughed.

“Naw, there’s something citrusy there too,” he muttered. “Besides, I love the smell of your food.” Then, he groaned and took a tiny step away, pressing his lips tight together to stifle a yawn. “I’m stupid tired right now, and I’m guessing from the noise downstairs, you need to get going.”

“Noise?” Kita jerked his head to the side. “Oh my… Miyas arguing _again_. I’ve grown far too accustomed to it! Look,” he said, as he heard Atsumu’s loud cackle, and Osamu’s howl. “Stay here, rest up if you want. I can always send them out on errands if you want to creep out.”

Tendou tugged on Kita’s sleeve and stared down at him. His index finger traced Kita’s nose, his thumb running across his lips. “Would you hate them to know about this?”

 _This_ … it sounded not ‘permanent’, but at least not fleeting.

“I wouldn’t hate it at all, but maybe we need to see what happens first.”

“Like meeting the parents?” Tendou waggled his eyebrows.

“Much worse. They’ll mince you up and serve you as pate, all the while haranguing you for tickets—” A clatter and another yell of outrage echoed up to them. “Right, I have to go. ATSUMU. OSAMU. WHATEVER IT IS YOU’RE FIGHTING ABOUT YOU STOP IT NOW!”

Atsumu, despite cowering on the floor, with Osamu trying to to whack him with one of the _heavier_ recipe books, was smirking. “I’m just sayin’ that if you want to keep somethin’ secret, then you should clean up after your _friends_ , Samu. Now, just whose bus pass is this, I wonder—”

“GIVE IT BACK!” Osamu screeched, and made to grab the pass. In doing so the book in his hand slipped from his grasp and something fell from its leaves.

“Hey, there, Kita-san!” Atsumu grinned at him.

“Osamu, release him. Atsumu stop shit stirring.” Stepping over, he retrieved the book, ran his fingers over the spine to check any damage, and then reached down for what had fallen out. Smiling a little at a dried out rose, he twisted round to where Suna stood at the sink, paler than usual and a muscle twanging in his forehead. “Help me separate them, will you?”

“Uh… yeah.” He slid forwards, slipping his arms underneath Osamu and pulled him away, mumbling something that could possibly have been an apology, although what he was sorry for, Kita had no idea.

_Oh!_

Then Suna reached out with his hand, looking as if he were about to help Atsumu up, but he checked himself to say, “It’s my bus pass. May I have it please?”

The silence was deafening. Even Atsumu stopped breathing.

“You ….” He struggled to say. “W-what’s with the secrecy? You’ve stayed over before.”

“With both of us, yeah,” Osamu mumbled.

“What he said,” Suna added, then twisted to face Kita. “Sorry, I don’t know how you feel about work place relationships, which was why we’ve kept it quiet.”

“The minute it become a problem, then I’ll let you know,” Kita remarked dryly. “At the moment, my main problem is two brothers who seem to be at each other’s throats.”

And then, as that information sunk in and both twins grinned rather sheepishly at each other, another sound rent the air.

A phone.

“Huh?”

A phone on the counter behind a propped up guitar.

‘Kiss me, Kimi-Kimi’ it sang.

“That’s …,” Atsumu goggled. “That’s not your phone, ‘Samu.”

“Or your guitar,” Suna said, his eyes narrowing. “That wasn’t here when I arrived, was it, Kita-san?”

And all eyes swivelled, when the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs interspersed with the rhythm of the song.

“Kiss me, Kimi-Kimi,” Tendou chimed, sauntering in with barely a glance at any of them, except for Kita to whom he smiled and Osamu who he gave the hint of a wink. He picked up the phone. “Hey, Semisemi, wassup? Ah, cool. Yeah, that gives me time to get back to the hotel. See ya!”

“You look just like Tendou Satori,” Atsumu gasped.

“Well, that’s reassuring,” he wisecracked.

“Guh—Guh—” Suna gargled. Then spluttered so hard, Osamu had to thump him on the back. “Guess Monster!”

“Ah yeah, that’s another name,” Tendou agreed, then swivelled on his feet towards Kita. “Did I tell you ‘bout that? Some snarky kid in a forum, called Tarou 10, thought I made up the dance moves as I went along.” He grinned, not necessarily with malice. “I’m not saying he was wrong, mind you. I’m a better guitarist than dancer.”

Osamu recovered first, but then the shock of a celebrity landing in the restaurant wasn’t such a new thing to him. “Tarou10, yeah that was him…” He trailed off, his mouth agape. “Tarou … Hey, Suna Rintarou, what was your volleyball shirt number at school again?”

“Ten,” Suna mumbled.

“YOU’RE THE SHIT POSTER!” Osamu yelled. “I WAS ON THAT FORUM FOR FOUR FRICKING YEARS!”

“You were? Who?” Suna demanded, then gasped. “OHMIGOD, I bet you were PuddinKid.”

“Ye—uh… mighta been!”

“YOU WERE!” Atsumu crowed. “I remember you logging on every night and getting stressed by trolls… Haaaaaaa! And the worst one is now your boyfriend. Oh, this is priceless!”

“I wasn’t a troll! And I didn’t shit post _all_ the time,” Suna pleaded. “I kind of liked the band, too, but you were just so easy to wind up, Samu.”

“Ah!” Tendou cackled. “How the tables turn! I always knew you were a secret fan.”

“Hey, Hey, Hey!” Atsumu shouted, from the floor. “Aren’t we straying from the fact that Tendou freaking Satori is in the kitchen right now!”

And then Osamu laughed and flapped his hand. “Old news, bro.”

The back door opened, Aran and Gin arriving. “What’s old news?” Aran asked, sounding grumpy. “And who the heck are—”

“It’s like this,” Kita said, stepping towards Tendou.

“You’re … OH MY GOD!” Gin shrieked.

“Nah, I’m Tendou Satori, kid. And sorry, this ain’t a miracle.” Laughing he plucked Kita’s sleeve. “I really have to go.”

“I’ll see you out,” Kita said, pulling him out of the kitchen and into the empty restaurant. He placed his hands on Tendou’s shoulders, reached up and pecked him on the lips. “Thank you for coming back.”

“And not for a free meal, right?” Tendou teased, and wound his arms around Kita’s waist.

“Hardly free.”

“Hmm?” he replied, but didn’t look puzzled.

“Extra yen in the till,” Kita explained. “Not to mention the coffee delivery. You’ve paid more than enough.”

“You got me. Is there enough credit so I can come back tonight and eat?”

“Of course.” Looking over Tendou’s shoulder, Kita saw four faces peering over the saloon bar door, and Aran’s hand smacking them all on the back of the head. “We have an audience,” he sighed.

“Ah, I’m used to that,” Tendou said, and turned on his heel to face them all. “Hey, Twins, if you behave for Kita-san, then I’ll spring you all some tickets, and backstage passes, even for you, Tarou 10.” 

He laughed as they scampered back into the kitchen and then became serious, touching the dried rose in Kita’s hand. “I’m touched you kept this,” he muttered, his voice thick.

“I don’t keep many mementoes, but throwing it away seemed _final_ ,” Kita confessed.

Lingering, Tendou twisted his fingers into Kita’s before letting out a regretful groan and bowling out the door.

And Kita watched for a while, until the figure with the guitar on his back and black beanie hurriedly shoved on his head loped into the crowd and disappeared from view.

Tumbleweed always on the move, weaving in and out of the crowd. But holding the dried rose between his fingers, pleased to find the stem was not as brittle as he’d feared, Kita smiled because he knew his tumbleweed would return.

**Author's Note:**

> Congrats, you made it to the end. I know this is a crack!ship, but I'm truly fond.


End file.
